The Curious Incident of the Woman in the Room Locked from the Inside
by AussieWizard
Summary: At wit's end, Scotland Yard calls in Sherlock Holmes to solve the murder of one Amelia Bones. Which is probably the worst possible thing that could happen to the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. AU 7th book after the Weasley Wedding.
1. The Other Minister's Shadow

Chapter 1:

_"I won't deny that morale is pretty low at the Ministry," said Fudge. "What with all that, and then losing Amelia Bones."_

_"Losing who?"_

_"Amelia Bones. Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named may have murdered her in person, because she was a very gifted witch and - and all the evidence was that she put up a real fight."_

_Fudge cleared his throat and, with an effort, it seemed, stopped spinning his bowler hat._

_"But that murder was in the newspapers," said the Prime Minister, momentarily diverted from his anger. "Our newspapers. Amelia Bones… it was just said she was a middle-aged woman who lived alone. It was a - a nasty killing, wasn't it? It's had rather a lot of publicity. The police are baffled, you see."_

_Fudge sighed. "Well, of course they are," he said. "Killed in a room that was locked from the inside, wasn't she? We, on the other hand, know exactly who did it, not that that gets us any further toward catching him…"_

~ Chapter 1: The Other Minister, _Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince_ by J.K. Rowling

Seemingly obligatory disclaimer: I think it's quite clear that I don't own Harry Potter or Sherlock. I wish I did. I'd have all the moneys. But I don't.

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The fireplace in the office of Mycroft Holmes was not purely for decorative purposes. Not that on any official record should he have such a lucrative working space - after all, he only had a minor occupancy in the British government. But there were those who knew better than to believe that. And there were even fewer who had even seen the inside of his office to know of the existence of the fireplace. And there was only one man who knew for what reason Mycroft personally kept this fireplace in working order.

And on this foggy summer's evening, he was scheduled to pay a visit to Mr. Holmes.

Mycroft had lit the fire thirty minutes prior to the hour. He then sent for a pot of tea. Two cups, please. Cream, sugar, the works.

The tea arrived at ten minutes prior to the hour. In that time Mycroft had procured a mock-up for the next day's copy of _The Times_. Well, he hadn't personally. He had sent for that too.

At seven minutes to the hour, he dismissed his staff for the evening. His detail were to wait for him elsewhere. But not a soul was to be in the vicinity. This was, after all, a sensitive conference call. So they were told.

At five minutes to the hour, Mycroft opened his briefcase. He removed a file, containing three newspaper clippings and laid them each on his desk.

**_FREAK HURRICANES DEVASTATE DEVONSHIRE_**

**_UNPREDICTED FOGS SEND TRAVELERS INTO A TIZZY _**

**_MOTHER OF TWO VANISHES WITHOUT A TRACE_**

And then Mycroft laid out the _Times_ mock-up:

**_SCOTLAND YARD BAFFLED BY LOCKED-ROOM MURDER. CLOSES CASE._**

At two minutes to the hour, Mycroft retrieved his bottle of whiskey from his liquor cabinet. He placed it next to the tea set.

Precisely on the hour, Mycroft poured his cup of tea.

One minute past the hour, the fire blazed and turned an emerald shade of green. A man emerged from the fire, a portly bumbling looking man wearing a bowler hat and dressed in fine black robes. His appearance and demeanor was tired, to put it kindly, but it would be more accurate to say that Cornelius Fudge looked spent.

Mycroft didn't bat an eye. "I thought you might take to something stronger than tea."

"Oh God, please yes." Fudge removed his hat and sat in a chair in front of Mycroft's desk.

Mycroft poured the whiskey. _One… two… three_. That should tide him over. But he probably had had a really horrid week… _Four… five… six._

"The prime minister has been briefed?"

"Yes, thank you." Fudge accepted his whiskey tea cup. "Just came from there. Introduced him to Scrimgeour. Caught him up on what's really been going on."

Mycroft made his way behind the desk, sitting in his chair, and examined the portly and sad little man. "No, I don't think it best that Scrimgeour know about me, so cancel your meeting with him after this one. I'd like to keep my existence in the dark where he is concerned."

That incredulous look of _how did he know?_ that flashed across Fudge's face died just as quickly and it had been ignited. "I learned a long time ago to not question how or why you do the things you do."

Mycroft smirked. "Good." He glanced again at the articles as he took a sip of tea. "Now, I think we have something we need to discuss."

"We -"

"I'm well aware of the growing situation. The patterns are undeniable, _obvious_ even. They have been for years. It's exactly the same as last time. You really should have listened to Albus Dumbledore while you had the chance."

Fudge's face turned beet red, "Now _look here!_ I did not agree to meet with you to be slapped on the wrist like a child!"

Mycroft remained unfazed, "No, you've already done that to yourself. And your constituency has taken care of that too."

"Then I hope you have _something_ that you -"

"Oh yes, Cornelius, it is of great import." Mycroft picked up the _Times_ mock-up. "I have stopped this story from publication in all possible print and digital sources that could possibly have interest. At least until I had had the chance to sit down with you ."

Fudge took the mock up, he let out a sigh of resignation. "Amelia Bones was one of our best. Awful news."

"Indeed. From what I heard of her she seemed to be a fine woman."

Fudge put aside the mock-up, "So what about this requires a meeting? It's an open and shut case."

Mycroft paused, and put down his tea. He readjusted himself in his chair. "My actions thus far have only _delayed_ the inevitable. All eyes are on Scotland Yard to solve this case. Calling this a cold case would be to admit defeat, which is unacceptable. Therefore, they will transfer this case to another team and when they do, there will be a major security breach to the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. I felt compelled to warn you, seeing as your Ministry has had a lot on its plate, undoubtedly this would have slipped by completely unnoticed. Only to be too late."

Fudge guffawed, "Ha! As if that hasn't been a worry of ours with any of the previous incidents."

"Cornelius, come tomorrow morning, this case will be re-assigned to Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. I can assure you this will happen. The Yard is baffled. They will put their most competent people on the case to boost the national spirit."

"He's a Muggle? No worries there."

"Quite right. However, Detective Inspector Lestrade will call in a man to consult. And once he is called to solve this case, there is little I can do to keep him from uncovering the truth. I can only give you time, and the foresight that he will not stop until he has won."

"So this breach is - ?"

"You must know that I cannot entrust this information to your current Minister - it is likely that the Dark Lord will be planning an infiltration of the Ministry of Magic on some scale, if he hasn't already. Scrimgeour isn't to be relied on. He's a new variable in the equation. And I intend to keep _most_ parties involved alive."

Fudge took another drink of whiskey, "Then why are you telling this to me?"

Mycroft took into consideration his subject. "We both have our own interests in knowing."

Fudge regarded the man behind the desk warily, "Right. Well then, what's so special about this fellow that's got you all riled up?"

"Cornelius," the corners of Mycroft's mouth curled ever so slightly into what some could call a smile, "how much have you heard about Sherlock Holmes?"

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	2. Old Evidence & Cold Tea

Chapter 2: Old Evidence &amp; Cold Tea

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Sherlock Holmes' phone rang at 10:45 the following morning.

"I was wondering when you'd call me. In my opinion, you're already late."

Lestrade was exasperated already, "Dammit Sherlock, the press conference only ended 15 minutes ago."

"Precisely my point."

"Alright, well, I'm not going to skirt around the issue and pretend that this isn't the case you know it is - will you _please_ come in and confirm it's a suicide?"

"It's murder."

"Half the department think's its a bloody suicide and they'll need solid proof to think anything otherwise. Like a killer and a confession."

"You know it's murder."

Lestrade sighed, "I just want to close this case. Quickest thing to get us to the truth, which is your specialty."

"I want to see the room. And the body is still at Bart's, correct?"

"Sherlock, you know that any evidence at her place will be at least a few weeks old…"

"Bring your files then. Everything you have. Pictures especially. And bring everything you found in the room with her including her clothes. You need to start this case over, and I'll do precisely that. But only if I get to see the room. Make sure Anderson doesn't come along, I can't afford annoyances. Is the body still at Bart's?"

"….Alright. I'll text you her address. And no, the funeral home recovered it a few days after the autopsy was concluded last week -"

"Get the body."

"_In the mean time_," Lestrade pressed on, "we have pictures and notes for you. And I'll see if Donovan can acquire the items found with her. I'm assuming…?"

"Don't bother sending a car. 30 minutes."

He ended the call with no hesitation. John Watson stared at him, wholly invested in the conversation that had just occurred.

"Lestrade?"

"Sherlock pocketed his phone, "Who else?"

"And it's the Amelia Bones case?"

"Obviously."

"About bloody time." John was already up and halfway to the door.

Sherlock abandoned his half-finished tea as he grabbed his coat and skipped down the stairs after him.

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By the time their taxi pulled up to the townhouse in Westminster, Lestrade had already secured the perimeter. He was on the phone right outside the door, clearly in the middle of negotiations over something. John hastily shoved cash into the taxi driver's hand and mumbled something about keeping the change before hurrying out of the car after Sherlock.

"Yeah… yeah, well is there any way we can… I know it's tomorrow, but we can… No I understand… But this time we have… Hello?"

"Body?" Sherlock breezed past him, right through the front door. Lestrade trailed him, followed closely by John.

"No luck. Her niece won't consent to any more examinations. Funeral home's hands are tied."

"Idiot." Sherlock wasted no time in checking out the first floor of the house. It was quite clear that none of the activity had happened down in this part of the house - it was just a normal living room and kitchen, nicely furnished. It was clear her niece hadn't gotten around to moving out her belongings.

"It's the poor girl's aunt, Sherlock. The body was released from Bart, it's her choice. She's only sixteen, she probably just wants to get the whole thing over with."

Sherlock bounded up the steps two at a time, and immediately began checking the doors up there.

"Second door on your left!" Greg hollered up as his phone rang again. "John, take these up to him, will you? These are all the notes and photos from the first sweep. Donovan will be here shortly with the rest.

John went up and aimed directly for the aforementioned door. The first thing that John noticed were the few but very distinct burn marks on the dark green walls and the inside of the door. The room itself was rather small and, even more interesting, completely empty. John flipped through the files to find a picture of the room, and pulled out the master shot.

In the picture, Amelia's body was face down in the middle of the room, it looked as though her body had crumpled to the floor. Whatever killed her brought her down, it was clear that the body had not been moved after time of death. There was a stick in her right hand, and she was wearing a long purple cloak. But the room was empty back then, too. What had this room been used for?

Sherlock joined John in the room, "Nothing's been touched in the bedroom. No theft. Just murder."

John shook his head, "It's been weeks, something could have -"

"Dust marks. No one's touched a thing."

John had to concede. He showed Sherlock the picture of the room from the file. "Files from Lestrade, and this room has always been empty. At least ever since police showed up on the scene."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, staring at the picture. He then darted directly to the door, examining its hinges, then the lock, then both sides of the door.

"Door hasn't been replaced, there's burn marks -" John started.

"Files." Sherlock extended his hand, not looking at John. It was clear he was doing his own analysis, so John gave up and just gave him the damn files.

Five minutes passed with Sherlock flipping through the photos, the notes, and examining the room. At one point, John could have sworn Sherlock pocketed something from the file, it wouldn't be out of the ordinary for him. Then the sound of heavy footsteps from the hall announced Lestrade's presence upstairs.

"I come bearing gifts." He held up two evidence bags - one had the stick, and the other, her cloak.

This was enough to snap Sherlock out of his reverie. He snatched the bags from Lestrade and dumped the contents onto the floor, rearranging them exactly as shown in the picture.

"_Sherlock -_"

"Shut up. Follow John's example."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. Sherlock sat on the floor, placed three photos from the file in front of the mock "dead body". Then his mind raced with all of the new data he had acquired...

_ROOM: small, windowless. Only one way in or out - the door. Door locked from the inside, per report. Burn marks on side in the room, no burn marks on side in the hallway. Hinges in perfect working order, same with lock. No scratches on lock inside or outside the room. Conclusion: no forced entry… either she knew her attacker and let him… him/her in or he/she got in by some other means._

_If other means, what?_

Sherlock quickly looked up at the ceiling. He quickly scratched that theory from his mind.

_As for the burn marks - four on the walls, two on the floor, one on the door. Residue to test? Run by Lestrade. Could be red herring. File away and revisit later._

He observed the pictures laid out in front of him: one was the master shot John had shown him, one was a full body shot of Amelia Bones, the third was a medium shot of Amelia Bones focusing on her head and hands. Her face was not visible in any of these shots. He scanned them to compile his data...

_CLOTHES - high quality, well made, not current fashion trends but not abhorrently out of style. Not only well made, some items are_ custom_ made. Position at work pays well - office-work, evidenced by hands, clearly taken care of, not scarred or stained from manual labor, and by shoes, high heels, power shoes, click clack shoes that you hear a mile away - well off enough to live in Westminster (comfortably) and... hmm..._

Sherlock opened the file. "Car... car car car..."

Lestrade couldn't help himself, "What's this about a car?"

"Greg, don't start." John chimed in before Sherlock lost his train of thought...

_File away and revisit later._

_CLOTHES continued - the cloak._

Sherlock felt the fabric of the cloak.

_Light, quality fabric. Smooth. Not heavy enough for to keep one warm. Not applicable for practical purposes... was this her personal style? Work attire? Was she just a weird woman?... File away and revisit later._

Sherlock shook his head, getting frustrated by the inconclusive data.

_HAIR - hair is messy, office work (going by clothes that resemble a business suit) encourage a well-kept appearance, and messy hair certainly wouldn't do, especially for that highly-paid job she has. Conclusion: she was engaged in some physical activity prior to her death. In her work clothes? Rule out athletic activity - not in those clothes and shoes. Rule out sex - negative results from autopsy, and significant other would have come forth by now. Conclusion: Self-defense. Conclusion: She put up a fight. _

_Conclusion: Murder, not suicide. __Well, at least there's something for Lestrade._

_Time of death was: 11:04PM. Killed while wearing cloak, which would have been cumbersome to wear around the house and clearly the first clothing item to go the moment she walked in the house. Conclusion: Ambushed or approached immediately after returning to her residence from work. Unless she didn't get to her cloak or forgot about it the moment she walked in because she_ knew_ this was going to happen…. File and revisit later._

Sherlock would get to the picture he had pocketed later.

Instead, he focused on the stick...

_...STICK: nothing else found on her person or in the room, and in fighting off her attacker, she chooses… this stick? Obviously great significance to the stick, be it practical, nostalgic, or obsessive. Slightly decorated along the whole stick, carved with patterns..._

Sherlock reached out his hand for the stick.

As soon as his hand even started to slightly grip the stick, Sherlock felt a rush of energy shoot through from the stick to his hand, his arm, and then fade through his chest. He immediately let go, a gasp escaped him involuntarily.

John came to, "You alright, Sherlock?"

"Yes… that… thing was very cold. I wasn't expecting it." he responded automatically.

Sherlock poked the stick again. The sensation did not return...

_...File away and revisit later. _

Sherlock pulled out his phone and snapped a quick picture of the stick. And the cloak for good measure.

Something nagged at the back of Sherlock's mind: _Don't tell Lestrade about the stick._

"Done."

Relief began to show on Lestrade's face, "What have you come up with?"

"Amelia Bones was murdered. Those at the Yard who claimed it was suicide are clearly idiots. Hardly anything surprising there. The state of her hair is indicative of a physical struggle. It was clear she was involved in a fight before her death, something not all that common when it comes to suicides. Not only that, but she didn't have time to take off her cloak or clearly uncomfortable shoes before getting involved in this struggle, meaning that the ambush happened as soon as she got home, or she knew it was going to happen by the time she got home. All signs point to murder. Your colleagues' fixation with suicide is probably linked with their inability to prove it otherwise. But since the evidence is inconclusive at best to begin with, I want every new lead you and your team discover to be forwarded to me, however thin. There are too many holes in this case, something is missing. And while that something is missing, progress cannot be made. This is not the open and shut case you want it to be.

"What is clear is this," Sherlock gathered up the files and the photos from the floor and shoved them back at Lestrade. "this case should really have been assigned to you from the start. Then at least, we'd have reliable evidence to begin with."

And with that, Sherlock strolled out of the room. "Carry on." he shouted behind him.

"Wait," Lestrade followed him. "thats it? You spent a good twenty minutes in that room, and that's all you've got?"

John and Lestrade followed Sherlock back down the stairs and out the front door.

"I got all that information from your lousy reports. We're back to square one, George, I don't know why you won't admit it - "

"_Greg_ \- "

"Isn't that what I said?" Sherlock pulled out his phone, his eyes alight. Clearly his mind was on fire. "John, find us a taxi."

By that point, Lestrade had clearly given up. As he rounded back into the house to clear out his team, John hurried up to catch Sherlock and held out his arm for the upcoming taxi.

"You didn't need to act like that, he only just got on the case today."

"Lies and false flattery won't help solve this case." Sherlock didn't look up from his phone. "Good evidence would have helped with that. There's missing data, and that which is missing is crucial."

John bit back the pre-planned lesson on how to be a real human being he wanted to lash out on Sherlock, and instead made sure the taxi he hailed pulled over. Which it did, much to his satisfaction. He opened the passenger door, "221B Baker Street, please."

Sherlock didn't follow.

"Wait," John halted the driver, "my flatmate…"

He poked his head back out the door, and saw Sherlock, a few houses down, whispering into the ear of a homeless woman sitting on the street. As he pulled back, she pocketed a bill that (John came to the conclusion) must have been part of the exchange.

_Guess I'm paying for the taxi again._ John shifted back into his seat.

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Halfway home, John couldn't hold his silence anymore. Sherlock had been excruciatingly quiet, and John's frustration in how he treated Lestrade had long since been replaced by his need to know what Sherlock had really found.

"Alright," he blurted out, "what did you figure out that you aren't telling Lestrade?"

Stone-faced. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I know that's not all you found, because that's definitely not all I found."

Sherlock's signature smirk began to curl on his lips. "What did _you_ find?"

_Great. Time to look like a prat again._ John settled himself in for the ride. "Well, I noticed her clothes -"

"What about them?"

"They were tailored. Which means she had the money to set aside after necessities for nice clothes. But for someone who could afford a house in Westminster and tailored clothes… where is her car?"

"Go on."

"Either her work is extremely close by, or she would be driven to and from work. But in her file there was no record of a car being recovered. And she never hired services."

"And…?"

"...Maybe the killer has access to the car or took it?"

Sherlock nodded. "What else?"

John tried to remember what he read in the file. "Well, other than her niece, there's no one reported in her file as a friend, relative or even a co-worker. Who reported her death to the police? And the door was locked from the inside when they arrived on the scene. That means either the murderer reported it, which for someone who has covered their tracks so well is not likely, or someone would have to have found her, re-locked the door, somehow get out of the room without damaging the door, and then call the police... or it _was_ suicide."

"What else?"

John thought for a minute, then begrudgingly, "That's it."

Another nod. "Good start, John."

John was no stranger to this game. "But I've clearly missed the bigger picture, haven't I? That's your usual response."

Sherlock launched in. "The car is a dead end. It's irrelevant. But as for who discovered her? _That_ is interesting. If the murderer didn't report it, then someone she knew and regularly checked in on her did, and in order to do that, like you said, they'd need to lock the door again and _then_ go to the police. But if neither of those options occurred, then she was monitored by some agency that was concerned for her - be it her work, or be it the government. Where ever she worked, it is clear that she was an important asset, and one to be monitored."

He then launched into the rest of what he found at the scene, from the door to the quality of the burn marks, to the cloak and everything in between.

All John could say in response was, "Oh."

"Don't beat yourself up too much, I withheld the key piece of evidence from you."

John instantly turned to Sherlock, "What?"

Sherlock reached inside his coat and pulled out the pocketed picture for John to see. The image was of Amelia Bones' face: it was contorted into an expression of pure terror. It was not a pretty sight.

"Amelia Bones died with this expression on her face. Rigor mortis occurred at moment of death, which astounded those conducting the autopsy…"

"Wait, how did you know that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "These pictures were taken prior to the autopsy. How else would you explain why those facial muscles are staying in place?"

John had no answer other than a feeble joke about magic, but it was clear Sherlock was not in the mood. He opted instead for a shrug.

Sherlock resumed, "This picture was not released to the public or the press, for obvious reasons. But this picture is the key piece of evidence thus far."

He pocketed the picture again. "Little Hangleton. Small village in the north of England, nothing of note. Except in 1943, the most hated family in the town, the Riddle family, was found dead in their mansion on the hill overlooking the town. Father, mother, only son. Adult son, but that's beside the point. Cause of death was indeterminable because all three victims appeared to be in perfect health at the time of death. For the records, they pitifully determined they were _frightened_ to death. Laughably bad and unfounded even by grade school standards."

He pulled out his phone, and was calling up an image from the internet, "Only suspect at the time was the Riddle's gardener, Mr. Frank Bryce, since he had the means to enter the house. However, they were forced to call it a cold case since their case with Frank was weak at best. Until he was found dead in the same house by the same means two years ago."

Sherlock lazily handed over his phone, "This was taken and leaked by trespassers two days before police got wind of the case."

John took the phone - an elderly man, sprawled on the floor, his face frozen in pure terror. Just like Amelia Bones.

"This case," he continued as the taxi slowed to a stop outside 221B Baker Street, "is the first since then that I have come across with a victim that is not connected to the Riddle Family. And while the time in between both of these cases is less than favorable, it's still the strongest lead we have."

John had to agree as they exited the cab. True to his prediction, John, again, was the one to shove money into the taxi driver's hand as they made their way to the door. Sherlock stopped, and abruptly turned back to John with an expression on his face akin to some convoluted combination of amazement, disbelieve, and (though John didn't want to admit it) fear.

"That stick. I felt... something... something similar to an electrical surge through my arm. I know it wasn't that... but it happened..." his voice was hushed but charged. It was clear that _this _was what had been on his mind. Everything else was explainable. This was different.

He didn't know exactly how to react, but seeing Sherlock like this was slightly alarming for his liking. He really hoped that Sherlock was just pulling his leg.

"You couldn't have told me inside?"

Sherlock mostly snapped back to his senses, "No," as he discretely pointed across the street. John turned to see a familiar black sedan parked across the street. "We have a nosy big brother upstairs."

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Mycroft stood in the middle of the living room, umbrella at the ready, when Sherlock walked through the door. It was clear this was not a social call.

"Mummy cross with her darling boy, Mycroft?" Sherlock showed no signs of the emotions he displayed a good ten seconds earlier.

"You can't solve this case, Sherlock."

John trailed in right behind Sherlock, "Hello to you too, Mycroft. Tea?"

Mycroft examined his umbrella. "Not today, John. Thank you. I'm just here to talk my brother out of getting himself killed."

Sherlock plopped down in his favorite armchair. "Was that a threat? Mummy said play nice, Mycroft." Sherlock picked up his now stone-cold cup of tea from that morning.

John noticed, "Sherlock, don't drink that - that's disgusting."

Mycroft plowed through, as if uninterrupted. "Your narrow and linear mindset are not ideal qualities to solving a case of this nature, and quite frankly I won't allow you to solve it. There are things at stake here that are far greater than your ego. Call it a suicide and drop it."

"But it's not a suicide."

"If you spin the evidence in the right way, it will be. Make it one."

Sherlock remained unfazed, sipping on his tea. "I can solve it."

"Regardless of whether you can or cannot solve it, it won't do any good. The man you're looking for can't be stopped."

Sherlock shot up from his chair. _Eureka._ "Ah!"

"Oh don't be so offended, Sherlock…"

"It is murder. And you know who did it."

John chimed in from the kitchen, "Then shouldn't we be working on tracking him down already?"

"It's not that simple, John. I wish it were. Would save us a lot of trouble."

"Who is it?"

Mycroft spared a pitiful glance for his brother. "Give Lestrade a few days, then call it a suicide. He'll take your word for it. If you don't by tomorrow morning then I'll bloody well do it myself. Good evening."

Sherlock wouldn't give it up, "Little Hangleton, 1943. The Riddle Family."

Mycroft scoffed but stopped at the door, "An obvious connection. And if you believe that that chapter of history wasn't already investigated then I can assure you, my dear brother, that you are entirely mistaken. It is merely another dead end. _Good evening_."

And with that, Mycroft left. He shut the door behind him firmly.

"You're not going to listen to him."

Sherlock turned his attention to John for the first time since they had gotten home. "That wasn't even a question." he pouted.

John shrugged. "I know you well enough to know that you very rarely listen to Mycroft."

Sherlock smirked. John was at least always right when it came to people. "It's clear that what is bothering him is not me solving the case, but rather the press that would come from solving it. Mycroft wants this case to go away. Clearly the man who did this is powerful."

John started relocating himself into the living room, closer to the files. "Moriarty, perchance?"

"We would have a more obvious calling card if it were him, something akin to a box of chocolates or a personal visit and confession. At least a text from him. No, this is someone new... someone who knew about Little Hangleton, or better yet..."

Sherlock stood in silence for a minute, his mind whirring away in thought. Then he made a move for his violin, and John could sense that that was that for the foreseeable future of the evening. Thoughts and words kept floating around in John's mind as music covered the silence... _Little Hangleton...Suicide... stick... electricity?..._ None of it was sticking, though. It was all a wash of words, nothing else. No connections, no discoveries... _maybe Sherlock should just..._

The violin screeched and stopped. "Computer."

"Hm.. What?"

Sherlock tossed his violin aside on the sofa and immediately dived for John's computer on the table. "Her body was released from Bart's last week, if half of London hasn't up and died between now and then, then it's likely that scheduling would go according to plan and her funeral would be due for sometime this week…"

Sherlock clearly found what he was looking for. He turned back to John with a triumphant look on his face.

"Clear your schedule, John. Tomorrow we're going to Amelia Bones' funeral."

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So sorry about the hiatus in between chapters! I just graduated college and the weeks building up to it have been nothing short of insane. But now that I'm out and have more time on my hands, hopefully updates won't be as long of a wait! I do want to finish this story and have the next few chapters planned as well as a general outline, and I want to bring this story to you guys :)

Thank you so much for all of your reviews, favorites, and follows - each time a new one pops up it really warms my heart.

ALSO EDITING THIS VIA COPY/PASTE IS THE WORST THING EVER. Fanfiction, please accept pages documents? Please?

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	3. Susan Bones

Chapter 3: Susan Bones

ooooffff I really am the worst at updating! I'm so sorry about that! BUT I hope you do enjoy this chapter, and stay tuned for a little surprise at the end of the chapter!

update: sorry (again!) if you've gotten multiple notices that this chapter is up - I had to delete all the coding for the formatting because the copy/paste function on document manager is truly terrible. But I think I fixed it all!

Enjoy!

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"We're not doing that, Sherlock."

"Crashing a funeral?!"

It was the following morning, and Sherlock was at the ready, and at the door - only waiting for John to fly into action with him, "We're not exactly crashing, are we? It's a public event, it's in the papers."

John shook his head in amused disbelief, "I would say that showing up to interrogate her mourning relatives _might_ be considered in poor taste."

Sherlock shrugged as he flew down the stairs, "We don't have the luxury of time to account for _poor taste_. And I'm not forcing you to come long if you so strongly object."

"Of course I'm coming, you git," John called after him, "Someone has to make sure you don't get punched in the face." John paused. "Although, I think I'll allow at least one punch today, considering the circumstances. We'll stop after five punches."

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As the taxi was en route to Brompton Cemetery - where Amelia Bones' funeral service was to take place - Sherlock's phone went off and snapped him out of his musings. He whipped out his phone to view the message.

(10:37:22)_ You missed the morning deadlines. Cheers. - MH_

"Is this your doing or Mycroft's?"

Sherlock glanced over to see John pulling up an article from The Daily Mail on his phone. The headline shouted: **_LOCKED ROOM MURDER RULED SUICIDE._**

Sherlock took a moment before pocketing his phone with a little more violence than usual,"Mycroft never intended on giving me any sort of deadline. Lestrade has served his purpose as far as this case is concerned. We're on our own now."

John knew better than to push the issue any further. The rest of the car ride was spent in silence between the two.

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They pulled up to the Brompton Cemetery not a half hour later. After having quite some difficulty in finding the service, they came to a stop halfway up a small hill upon spotting around ten people gathered around a small graveside. There were no bells and whistles - no pictures of the deceased. A funeral that was clearly meant to be done and over with. All of the attendees were wearing long black cloaks. It seemed that the event was just about over, as people were saying their final goodbyes to one young woman before walking away - by the looks of her, she couldn't have been over seventeen. John had a feeling that this was Amelia's niece.

"I'm sure you've noticed by now that that girl over there is none other than Miss Susan Bones," Sherlock kept his voice low.

"I assumed as much. All of the attention is focused on her."

"Well, clearly, yes. But there's also —"

"Sherlock," John hushed him, "remember where we are. It's not necessarily a crime scene."

"Sherlock huffed, but acquiesced and fell silent.

A few minutes later, the final guest stepped away from the youngest attendant. Sherlock waited for him to clear some distance before calling out to her, "Susan Bones?"

Susan abruptly turned to face them, eyes wide at hearing her name called by an unfamiliar voice. Sherlock saw that she was immediately suspicious of the two of them, something to be expected when one is approached by strangers. She cleared her throat, eyes shifting around, "Yes?"

Sherlock immediately lifted the pitch of his voice and cracked an awkwardly charming and apologetic smile, "My condolences and deepest apologies for your loss. My name is Samuel Jones and this is my colleague, Oliver Thompson. For clerical purposes, there are a few questions we'd like to ask you - "

"You're Sherlock Holmes." Susan cut him off.

"We - oh." Sherlock took a moment to recognize that she had, indeed, just said his actual name. This fame thing, thanks to John's blog, was getting quite annoying.

He immediately dropped the facade, and reverted back to his normal 'Sherlock-isms'. "Yes. Yes, I am. And this is John Watson, I'm sure you love his _blog."_ The venom in his last statement almost made John laugh.

Susan furrowed her brow. "Blog?"

John lost that laugh real quick, "Oh, um. Nevermind."

"I was told you were consulting on my aunt's case. Dr. Hooper mentioned you when I went to pick up…" she trailed off. The fraying on the sleeve of her cloak had suddenly become very interesting to her.

John was the one to break the silence, "Well. We have a few questions for you about your aunt. I know the time isn't optimal, but this is crucial to the progress of the case."

Susan let out a bitter laugh, "You can't be serious."

"It's just a few questions, shouldn't take any more than -"

"You just ruled her case as a suicide this morning." Susan cut John off, "The case is closed. What more could you need to know? And furthermore, what authority do you have to be further investigating a closed case?"

"Oh, come now." Sherlock couldn't help but scoff, "Don't tell me you believe in all that tabloid trash -"

"_I believe_ that my aunt is _dead."_ Susan raised her voice just enough to shut Sherlock up, "And what's more, you have the audacity to think I'd consent to an interrogation immediately after her funeral? How _dare_ you. You have no business talking to me and I will not answer any of your questions. Good day." With that, Susan turned on her heels and marched away from the two men.

Unsatisfied with how things were going, Sherlock stepped forward and played his trump card, "We know of the connection between your aunt and the Riddles."

Susan froze in her tracks. Sherlock waited for a response from her but none came; he furrowed his brow a little, puzzled by her reaction. A few seconds ticked by in silence, and Susan remained frozen, facing away from them.

Sherlock's impatience got the better of him, "We're not from Scotland Yard, Susan. We were involved with Scotland Yard, but our further work on the case is no longer part of the official investigation with them. Now if you don't mind, we have some questions for you."

Susan hesitantly turned to face the two men. Her eyes were full of unmistakeable terror.

"… You two… you're not muggles, are you?"

Sherlock's mind came to the most severe of halts… _muggles?_ The fact that he couldn't even confirm if that was an actual word in the English language was enough to give Sherlock more than a moment's pause.

""Muggles -?"

"Why are you asking me about Tom Riddle?" she spat viciously.

_Tom._ Sherlock latched onto the name. _Tom_ specifically. Was it the father? The son? Why did a name incite such a fear in this woman? In addition, how did she even know of the Riddle case? Clearly there was more of a connection than he originally had thought there would be.

"Tom -?"

"Sherlock, wait." John had noticed Susan's body language was starting to get defensive, clearly Sherlock's tactics of bold-faced interrogation were putting her on edge. He slowly approached her, "Everything's alright, Susan. We're just here to talk. We want to help you, and we just want to ask a few questions about your aunt -"

Susan continued to back up, "This isn't about my aunt - this is about Harry Potter, isn't it? It's always about Harry Potter."

"Harry…?" Sherlock began to ask.

"Why else would you be asking about V-… about _him?_ I won't help you - " She reached inside her cloak, hurriedly grasping for something...

"Susan - "

Susan pulled a stick out from the inside of her cloak and clutched it with a vice-like grip. Immediately, Sherlock thought of the stick found with Amelia Bones. For some reason, he felt just the slightest bit threatened by that single stick.

She kept the stick aimed at the ground but the warning was still clear, _"DON'T_ come any closer to me!" her tone getting a little more frantic.

_"John. Stick."_

John looked - indeed, it was just like the one Amelia Bones had. Even though it was just a stick, it was clear to John that he needed to calm her down and fast. Who knows what she would do with it.

"Susan, put that stick down, we're not here to hurt you -"

This (miraculously to John) caught Susan off-guard, _"Stick?!_ Did you really just -". Then, something clicked in her mind, "…You're not Death Eaters."

John shook his head with the utmost bewilderment, "What —? No. Don't even know what that is… Death eaters? … that just sounds deeply unpleasant. Um… see him?" He gestured over to a visibly perplexed Sherlock Holmes (a rare sight to behold, especially in public), "I've never seen him like this. _Ever_. We legitimately have no idea what you're talking about."

Susan shifted her eyes between the two of them, still not wholly convinced, "… Seriously?"

"Quite. I-If I may…?" John, seeing that she wasn't going to start stabbing them with her stick, slowly pulled out his phone from his back pocket. He pulled up a website as he spoke, "That blog we mentioned earlier? Here."

John extended the phone to Susan. She flinched at the gesture but regained her composure and tentatively took the device from John.

John let out a small sigh of relief, "We know your aunt was murdered, and we know you know that too. There is a correlation between the Riddle family case of Little Hangleton and your aunt's case - but it seems you already knew that too. Um… this is all a bit awkward now, isn't it?"

Susan was staring at the phone like it was a piece of moon rock - it seemed completely foreign in her hand. Sherlock studied her, hawk-like. John shifted uncomfortably.

"Sorry for clearly scaring the living daylights out of you. You could punch Sherlock in the face? I know I'd quite like to at times. Probably would be easier than… impaling him with your… stick?"

Susan suddenly shoved John's phone back into his hands.

"Oh… Oh _God_ \- I'm…" Her hands began to shake, "I-I'm so sorry… I… I have to - "

And with that, she ran. Away from them, further into the heart of the cemetery. Awkwardly shoving the stick back in her cloak and her hair flying every which way. But then she stopped, and just as quickly pulled out the stick again and, this time, aimed the stick directly at Sherlock.

"What is she -?"

No sooner had John muttered that, Susan had decided to pocket the stick and run away again. This time, Sherlock sprinted after her.

_"Sherlock!"_ John ran after the two.

Sherlock dodged trees and gravestones, keeping his eyes on Susan. Susan checked behind her to see them in hot pursuit - she immediately began looking around for other avenues to escape. She made a sharp change in course, hoping to throw Sherlock off her trail. Sherlock navigated the change in course with little added effort. She seemed to be aiming for a nearby mausoleum — Sherlock continued to follow in hot pursuit, slowly gaining on her. Right when she reached the mausoleum, she made a hard turn right behind the structure. It was not five seconds later when Sherlock rounded the same corner of the mausoleum and immediately skidded to a halt.

Susan Bones was gone.

Sherlock looked around, now completely disoriented. If Sherlock was one to jump to silly conclusions, he might have said that she had vanished into thin air.

Although, if truth be told, he wasn't entirely ruling that possibility out...

He heard John's slight wheezing and the pitter-patter of his footsteps slowing to a stop. "What the hell just happened? Where is she?" he panted.

"I'm…. I'm not entirely sure." It was one of the few times in Sherlock's life where he might have actually meant that statement. "She… she just turned the corner..."

John was not at all comforted by the fact that Sherlock was as lost as he was. "I guess that's it then. If she really is gone..." he waited for Sherlock to chime in with some insight or a sarcastic quip. It did not come. "... Shall we go then?"

"...Sure."

Bewildered by the events that had transpired in the past few minutes, both men wandered back the way they came in silence. At least, silence on John's end.

"She asked only about Tom Riddle." Sherlock started, "Both the father and the son were named Tom, but seeing as the elder has been dead for well over fifty years, we must conclude that she is referring to the son. But _why?_ The Hangleton case is far too old to be connected to anything current, the son would have to be well over seventy years old by now and there are absolutely no records of what happened to the younger riddle. But Susan's reaction and consequential gibberish are irrefutable evidence of a stronger connection to the Riddles…. And who is Harry Potter? How does he fit into all of this?"

"I'm not sure," John replied as they made it back to where their taxi had dropped them off not that long ago. "Maybe Mycroft was right to tell us to leave it alone."

He could sense Sherlock tensing up out of frustration. "Mycroft is rarely right, and he certainly isn't about this."

"Sherlock, y'know, sometimes Mycroft actually does have your best interests in mind. This might be one of those times."

A hardened female voice interrupted them, "Spare some change, sir?"

Sherlock and John whipped their heads over to see the same homeless woman who was right outside Amelia Bones' residence approaching them from the street. Looking between the two of them, it was clear she only had counted on talking to Sherlock.

Sherlock, naturally, picked up on the source of her hesitation, "He's alright, tell us both what you've found.

She scooted over closer to them, and took a final few seconds to scout out the surrounding area before speaking. "Nothin' on the Riddles or this Amelia Bones, but there's somethin' else of interest. The whispers on the streets - they grow in numbers, and they repeat the name of Harry Potter. Many in awe, others in worry, but some in murderous delight. "Harry Potter's days are numbered," they say. "Harry Potter will be dead before long". I'll keep my ear to the ground… for another fifty pounds."

Sherlock immediately pulled out a few folded bills for her. "Find out more, especially about this Harry Potter. And follow a woman named Susan Bones - she just left from here headed North East - auburn hair, caucasian, slight freckles, around 16 or 17 years old."

"Sure that isn't too much you're giving her, Sherlock?" John murmured.

The woman shot John a scathing glare as she pocketed the money from Sherlock, "This information ain't cheap, son. And your friend here knows I'm good. I'll be back around Baker Street this time tomorrow."

And with that, she stalked away down the street, her wandering eyes immediately on the task at hand.

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(15:45:08) _"Muggle". What is it? - SH_

(15:49:24) _Mycroft. - SH_

(15:52:33) _Susan Bones accused me of being a 'Death Eater' ..._

(15:52:48) _What does that mean? - SH_

(15:55:50) _Mycroft. - SH_

(16:03:28) _Mycroft. - SH_

(16:24:30) _I can get John to pester you too. - SH_

(16:37:02) _Mycroft. - SH_

(16:40:19) _Mycroft. - SH_

(16:43:41) _Who is Harry Potter? - SH_

(16:44:00) _Never heard of the word. - MH_

(16:44:07) _And leave the poor girl alone. - MH_

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True to her word, the homeless woman was back the next day, but not with good news. It seemed that Susan had disappeared from the greater metropolitan area of London overnight. Furthermore, she could not find any other information about Harry Potter, nor any clues as to who he even was. And despite Sherlock's best attempts, his future efforts proved to be as futile as hers.

But Amelia Bones' case would prove to only be the beginning.

More and more, the cases Lestrade would bring Sherlock became strangely unsolvable - they made Amelia Bones' case look like child's play. Missing persons cases popped up all over the United Kingdom, in addition to a sharp spike in murder cases bearing similarities to the Bones /strongAll were unsolvable, and Scotland Yard was beginning to look like it was being run by incompetent fools (though Sherlock would have told you that one years ago). Naturally, the media pounced.

Even Sherlock wasn't spared - headlines and opinion columns emerged of how Scotland Yard's darling detective couldn't even help with the rise of crime. This didn't go over so well with Sherlock, as John witnessed one night when he came home from Bart's to find Sherlock perusing said headlines on his phone.

"Pity that these idiots are actually paid to share their worthless opinions. Their entire profession is pointless and parasitic." Sherlock huffed, and violently threw his phone at the sofa.

He snatched up his violin, and spent the rest of the foggy evening plucking away at it.

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(03:02:11) _Happy New Year, Sherlock. - MH_

(03:02:59) _Keep your head low for the next few months. - MH_

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When summer arrived, things of an unusual nature began to permeate the tense atmosphere that had been plaguing London in recent times. During his commutes to and from work at Bart's, it came to John's attention that, for as stifling hot as London could get in its summers, there was a more pronounced population of the city wearing black cloaks on a regular occasion.

Missing persons cases were still just as regular to find in the news, however these cases never landed on Lestrade's desk. Sherlock moped at how the interesting ones never got passed along to him, John rather suspected that Mycroft was fielding the cases. Talk of Amelia Bones and the Riddle Family had certainly subsided at 221B Baker Street, but John had no doubt that those were the thoughts gnawing away at Sherlock's mind at every moment's chance.

As a matter of fact, John was certain he was doing this right now, even though he was preoccupying himself with the latest hoard of body parts procured by the one and only Doctor Molly Hooper (John couldn't remember if this week it was fingers or earlobes). He could have sworn that Sherlock had already run identical tests exactly a month ago (even on the same parts of the human anatomy), but John didn't have the heart to point that out to him. Even worse, he was worried that Sherlock already knew he was running the same exact test.

It was a rare stretch of time that Sherlock and John weren't running around London, so Mrs. Hudson had taken to making them dinner on some evenings. John rather enjoyed having her around, for she made an excellent partner for watching television. Sherlock was not an excellent partner for watching television. Rather, he was excellent at making Mrs. Hudson worry excessively about the condition of their kitchen.

"Sherlock, dear, you're not destroying my countertops are you?"

He didn't even look up to respond, "Not at all, Mrs. Hudson."

"Good. Give that a rest for a minute, and come watch the Prime Minister's speech with us?"

Sherlock snorted under his breath. "Please, Mrs. Hudson. It's just one large circus, there's no value in anything related to politics."

"You're just bitter your brother runs the whole damn show." John chimed in from his chair.

""Ooh! Quiet, boys - he's speaking!" Mrs. Hudson turned on the volume before Sherlock could retort. John turned his attention back to the television where a handsome, yet clearly exhausted, man was situating himself at his podium.

The Prime Minister looked rather pale as he addressed the cameras, "It is with great sadness that I announce our very own Herbert Chorley will be stepping down permanently from his position as Junior Minister. While he has been a valuable asset to our administration, his family feel that it is best for him to remain at home permanently as his condition has not improved." He spared the slightest of glances over his right shoulder before turning back to his speech. "While we had hoped that this — "

"Those two in the back." John and Mrs. Hudson jumped at the sudden presence of Sherlock's voice right behind them. "On our left side of the Prime Minister, the two men without ties… they're new."

John looked a bit closer, and indeed (as always) Sherlock was right. There were two men in the corner, almost begrudgingly allowing themselves to be filmed. One was a towering figure that John believed rather resembled an old lion in his demeanor - his shrewd eyes piercing through his mane of hair. The other, who was just behind the formerly described man, sported long black hair and beard speckled with silver hair. There was something about the second man that seemed a bit distant.

"Interesting characters." John agreed, "I wonder if Mycroft might know them?"

Sherlock stalked back to the kitchen without responding.

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(20:18:56) Who are the two new men in the PM's entourage? - SH

(20:19:15) I didn't know you had acquired an interest in politics. - MH

(20:19:40) John's watching. New friends of yours? - SH

(20:21:34) Mycroft, the silence is tiresome. - SH

(20:23:01) Yes... Yes it is. - MH

(23:49:25) Stay safe. - MH

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A few weeks later, the disappearance of Charity Burbage piqued Sherlock's interest, but much to his disappointment it never landed on Lestrade's desk. Few did nowadays, and even fewer that were sent to Sherlock. In the latter days of July, violent and unpredictable lightening and thunderstorms travelled from Surrey to Devon.

It seemed as though the world was unravelling - an invisible force of nature was wreaking havoc both seen and unseen, but definitely felt by all. And all the while, people watched and waited for when this darkening storm would hit them. Would they be next? Their neighbor? Their hometown? What freak occurrence would tear their community apart this time?

But unlike the others who waited in dread, the inhabitants of 221B were jumping at the gun with anticipation. War was near; they could feel it in their bones. A war greater than either of them had ever faced before. Each day that passed only brought Sherlock and John closer and closer to battle.

Then, August 1st arrived.

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I'm THE WORST at updating, so I decided kick my butt into gear and give all y'all a treat. Since you guys are THE BEST (and legit your kind words and follows and favorites give me the motivation to keep writing)… Chapter 4 will be up next Tuesday. :) I'm going to hold myself to it!

Thank you again for all your love, follows, reviews, and favs - it really means a lot to me!


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